could be, should be, would be
by ayumi-nightbeauty
Summary: [tumblr au!challenge] 02: His tone, light; every word laced with humor. His blue eyes, intense; they pierce with unspoken words. Revenge, she's sure; she'd been teasing him all week, now… it is his turn. [YamaSora]
1. meeting at a masquerade ball (KenMiya)

Ok. So, I'm doing a... au!challenge (?) in tumblr, and I'll be posting them here. Some of them. :D

Starting with this Kenyako.

 **Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. No matter how much I want them to be.**

* * *

 **"could be, should be, would be"**

 ** _meeting at a masquerade ball au - Kenyako._**

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 **.**

She's never been one to _do_ this. Never been one to let a random stranger slide his hands under her skirt, _hell_. She's never even allowed that much to her ex-boyfriend until they dated for _a year_.

But that's the point, isn't it? That had been the point when she accepted her roommate's invitation to this party. Step out of her comfort zone, into the _game_. Right?

And as she feels his hand move over her thigh and up, up, _up_ —as she gasps and her eyes fly open and she stares right into a pair of mesmerizing blue eyes that keep sending shivers down her spine over and over, she thinks—

 _Right._

 **.**

 **.**

Miyako really feels obligated to accept the invitation.

Here is this girl, who going only by her brother's word had let her be her roommate. And her brother's word had come from the little brother of her sister's classmate. So, it is saying a lot, that this sweet girl put up no resistant to take in a complete stranger.

Thus why, when she asks her if she'd like to attend a party, a _masquerade-ball_ themed party at that, Miyako can only say yes. And while her initial plan is to spend the night being her usual friendly self until an appropriate time to escape, it all goes out of her mind the moment she bumps into him.

This perfect, blue-eyed stranger.

"So," he says, leaning more comfortably against the wall, "let me see if I understand."

She can only see the lower half of his face, and his eyes. His piercing blue eyes that only make her want to be closer and closer and— _what's wrong with her?_

"Your sister's classmate found out about you needing to find an apartment, and said classmate told her brother, for some reason, who told his senior in…" he pauses, sips his drink and the continues—movements, Miyako realizes, that have her practically hypnotized. "…a soccer club, who just happened to have a sister looking for a roommate."

"That's correct."

"An incredibly bizarre chain for one favor," he says, hiding an almost-smile behind his glass.

Miyako tries to convince herself that the warmth spreading through her, the fluttering in her stomach, is due to the alcohol.

 **.**

 **.**

She asks for his name. Again, that damned little smile appears slowly, and he says that would defeat the point of the party's theme. The pout escapes before she can suppress it, but he doesn't comment on it. And after a while, he tells her she should just call him whatever she has been calling him in her mind.

She says blue-eyed stranger might sound weird.

He smiles.

"Not more weird than violet-haired girl."

 **.**

 **.**

It is a surprising thing.

The shift.

One moment, they talk and talk and _talk_ , enjoying the company of someone who is not yet drunk, at least, not too drunk to be incapable of forming a coherent sentence. But then they're leaning into each other—shoulders pressed together and hands brushing oh so _casually_ over hair and arms.

The wall at her back is cold, and it feels refreshing in the midst of the all-consuming heat this stranger evokes in her. His deep voice drowns out the shouts of drunken people all around the yard. And his eyes… _his eyes_ …

And then comes the next moment.

 **.**

 **.**

She kisses him with abandon. With a disinhibited passion she'd not known herself capable of. Her hands fist on his shoulder and while a paper wouldn't be able to slip between them she feels they're not _close enough_.

They're in a room, she knows this but can't remember how they got there. _When_ they got there.

Blue-eyed Stranger grabs her thighs and hoist her up, pressing her against the wall at her back. The kiss breaks briefly and it allows her to _breathe_ , and then he's stealing it all away-breath and reason and any little argument that she might have come up with to _stop_ this.

She doesn't _want_ to stop this.

Miyako hooks her ankles at his back, and he grips her hips pushing their bodies closer. He thrust—once, _slowly_ , then again with a little more force, and again and again and _again_ —hitting that sweet, sweet spot that makes her blood boil and her skin tingle and her head go _blank_. And she gasping for air but refuses to part from his lips, and she begs him to go faster, _go harder, almost there…!_

He hisses and Miyako lets out a silent scream and among the rush and sweet oblivion she thinks she's never been _more_ —

And then she falls.

 **.**

 **.**

"Ken."

His voice comes from far away and Miyako struggles to understand.

They had slid down the wall and remained right there on the floor, limp-limbed and thoroughly satisfied, clothes rumpled right down to their ruined underwear.

His face is pressed against her neck, and each puff of air hitting her sensitive skin sends jolts down her spine. God, it is too much.

"Ken," he repeats, pulling his face away to look at her. "My name is Ken."

Sweet God, he's gorgeous. His mask lay askew on top of his head and now she had a close-up view of this beautiful stranger, with his aristocratic features, full lips _(kissable lips, God, she'd enjoyed kissing those lips)_ , and those piercing blue eyes.

She has to take a moment to swallow the whimper that attempted to surface.

"Miyako," she replies, eventually. "I'm Miyako. It's a pleasure to meet you."

And only when his damnable smirk pulls at the corner of his lips does she realize _what she'd said_. She blushed.

"Oh, the pleasure was _all_ mine."

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 **fin.**

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If you catch any mistakes, please tell me? Thanks for reading!


	2. pretending to hate each other (YamaSora)

Ok, so. This one is... kinda NSFW. Not, make that **DEFINITELY NSFW**.

So, kiddies, away!

Srsly, it's **NSFW**.

I don't even know if the prompt was met, oops?

 **Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. No matter how much I want them to be.**

* * *

 **"could be, should be, would be"**

 ** _pretending to hate each other au - Sorato_**

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A light tingle starts to build at the base of her spine, slowly, _burning_. It travels up, running the length of her spine and forcing a breathy gasp out of her. Her forehead presses harder against the wall supporting her weight; she lets out a shuddering breath. A single drop of sweat slides down the side of her face, tickling but not enough of a distraction as her body falls prey to wicked, _wicked_ manipulation.

She tries for control, and fails. Another shuddering breath and she tries again.

And fails.

Her body shakes, once, twice, and then her legs quiver and she has to place both her hands flat on the wall, each at either side of her head, for added support because she _knows_ , she can feel her legs giving in—can feel _herself_ giving in. Pressing her left cheek to the cool surface, she searches for some reason, some clarity to her thought that would allow her to—

She finds none.

And then, she is almost there.

Looking over her shoulder, she plans to plead, _beg_ , for release, but stops. What she _finds_ makes her stop, revel against the thought; makes her skin tingle in delight and her body hum in pleasure. The moan spills out past her lips before she can properly contain it.

That damnable lopsided smirk of his, it is always her _undoing_ although not this time; _not_ this time—she curses him.

"Methinks thou art taking this pretending game a little bit too far."

His tone, light; every word laced with humor. His blue eyes, intense; they pierce with unspoken words. Revenge, she's sure; she'd been teasing him all week, now… it is his turn.

The hand holding her hips in place, steady, drifts up her side; it tugs her shirt free of the skirt and slips under it. His fingers trace the little oval that is her navel, lightly, and the splay wide over her abdomen, pressing hard and moving up, up, _up_. But her focus is elsewhere, farther south, where his other hands remains placed firmly between her thighs, where his fingers go from hard and unforgiving strokes that build her high and leave her tethering at the very _edge_ to lazy caresses that soothe and deny her what she wants most _now_.

It is torture of the most beautiful kind.

"I so… _loathe_ you right now…"

His lips press against her neck, his chest against her back, and she feels his chuckle rumble through her own body. His tongue graces her skin, licking the sweat away before his lips latch on. Sucking, he always did like to leave his mark on her.

She's about to berate him for torturing her so, when his hand's movements speed up, fingers sliding in and keeping a maddeningly fast tempo. He pushes fast and hard towards her peak, _again_ , she's feeling her body anticipate the glory, _again_ ; she's so close she can almost grasp it, almost, _almost_ …

"Just a little bit more…"

And then it stops, his hand slowing it frenzy, his fingers going back to drawing lazy circles; and she curses _herself_ this time, for breaking like that.

"Dammit, Yamato…"

"Say it nicely."

The whimper that escapes her is a perfect mix of both pain and pleasure.

 **.**

The pretending game; that stupid decision to make it seem as if they hate each other had just been the product of a lack of forethought and the rumor mill of their school. They had argued, she had refused to acknowledge his very existence for the rest of the day, had ignored her classmates inquiries about their current status, and that had been it.

And later, _suddenly_ , they had somehow proclaimed to hate each other. Or, that is what everyone said.

Yamato had wanted to clear such misconception right away, stating the school would find out once they saw them the next day, as neither—especially her—were capable to hating one another. A sincere comment, innocent in nature, it had been truthful. But Sora had risen to a challenge that had not been there, saying she could fool everyone and their mother is she so desired, and Yamato…

Well, he had never been one to back down.

A month, they'd decided, to pretend, and the loser would be the first to crack and seek out the other. And Sora, she had used every weapon in her arsenal, and spent a whole of three week teasing and tempting, playing with the raging inferno she knew Yamato could be.

It had worked; Yamato cracked first, and corralled her as she'd been leaving the locker room after her tennis practice. The moment he'd engaged her into a bruising kiss Sora _knew_ she had won.

Now, she is not so sure.

 **.**

She bites the inside of her cheek, resisting, deciding she will not give him the satisfaction of watching her this undone. The elastic of her underwear stretches painfully against the outside of her thighs, as she braces her feet farther apart.

Laying soft kisses along her neck, with a tenderness contrasting the wickedness of his teasing hands. He is waiting, for her to crack now; Sora tries to resist, but the pressure—the _frustration_ —she cannot.

"Say it _nicely_."

He repeats and she relents. And later…

Later she'll call it a draw.

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 **end.**

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You know, I've no beta, so please let me know if you catch any mistakes, yes?


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